


Skin

by hubblegleeflower



Series: Favourite Ficlets [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot, Porn Without Plot, Sherlock's transport
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 03:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7250356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has begun to realise that he might not be above all this, that the transport might, after all, be capable of being transported.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr ficlet, like the others.

**  
**Sherlock is on the bed. **  
**

John’s bed.

There’s something different about it. Certainly Sherlock has splayed himself there before, as he often splays himself on any available surface. But there’s something different that has been building all day, building to this.

Sherlock has eaten today, and has done so willingly, with every sign of enjoyment. He actually sighed contentedly over his second cup of tea. He has also showered and shaved, which he doesn't always do when he’s in a funk, and the flat is pleasanter now that he has.

It is pleasanter, also, because Sherlock has tidied. Straightened the papers on the desk, gathered up the discarded dressing gowns from off the furniture, cleared away the half-hearted half-experiments from various surfaces, and put the coffee table back in front of the sofa.

Then he changed the sheets on his bed. And John’s.

And not because he’s making amends for anything, either. It’s more…willing than that. As if the trappings of home and the care of their bodies - the demands of the transport - are not, after all, a tedious chore but, perhaps, a pleasure.

It’s new.

And now Sherlock has come up to John’s bedroom (where John is ploddingly putting his socks away in a drawer- folded, but not indexed), and has laid himself naked on his back, crosswise, with his head and arms hanging a little over the edge, so that his torso is stretched and taut and every line is visible.

His eyes are closed. His mouth, John notices because he suddenly finds himself staring at it, unable to look away, is open. 

Sherlock doesn't speak. Nevertheless, it is clear what he is asking for.

_Touch me._

Sherlock never does this, never presents himself for pleasure so eagerly. Never admits to - whatever it is he’s admitting to. 

But now his skin is practically _thrumming_ with tactility. _Touch me._

So John does.

He moves to stand at Sherlock’s head and looks down the endless length of his body. He lets his fingertips rest, lightly, along both sides of the prominent ribcage. There is a deep sigh, and a slight shiver, as John’s fingers come to rest. _Thrumming._

_All right, then._ Fingertips spread wide, John draws his hands up Sherlock’s body. Immediately, Sherlock whimpers and _arches,_ throwing his arms even further over his head and pressing his chest into the touch. This barest touch.

It takes John by surprise, this abandon. This whole aspect of their relationship - touching - is still somewhat new, but this…he hasn't seen this before at all. Sherlock so easily admitting to pleasure. It’s new.

(It’s wonderful.)

Another reach, back down Sherlock’s body, and a slow draw of fingers, up again. Same reaction, without restraint. _Again_. On the fourth pass, he lingers over the nipples with the pads of his middle fingers, tracing a small serpentine over the pale ovals and pressing down on their tight centres. He relishes the ragged groan that emerges from Sherlock’s throat, out his still-open mouth.

Sherlock, often embarrassed by his noises, even the small ones, makes no attempt to stifle them today, but stretches his spine even further, inviting touch, demanding it.

John looks on in awe. John, who has grown used to making love to a Sherlock who still distrusts his transport and still resents being dependent on it, would stay all day like this, carrying out a ceaseless rhythm of lean, drag and circle, if Sherlock is going to thrum under his hands and groan out his ragged pleasure.

He is inhabiting his own skin now, completely, and thrilling to the slow drag of John’s fingers up his body. Still saying nothing.

But not simply reacting. The next time John leans over for another pass, all the way to the crests of his hips, he sucks in a sudden breath because Sherlock has flexed his body and is mouthing and lipping at the front of his trousers. The heat and pressure against his confined erection make him gasp.

_Oh._

He straightens, though, maintaining his circular movement, and Sherlock - eyes still closed - chases, seeking, mouth wide open, whimpering his need. Owning it. _Reveling_ in it. 

It’s obvious to John what he wants, as he hangs there upside down off the end of the bed with his gaping mouth, and John is clumsy in his eagerness to give it to him.

He takes the time to remove all of his clothing, though. He doesn't want to be stood there with his trousers around his ankles, nor stuck having to hold the tails of his shirt aside to be able to see the place where his cock disappears into Sherlock’s plush, upside-down mouth, and into his long white throat.

Naked now, John stands by the bed and stares at Sherlock, laid out before him, unashamed and magnificent. Not content to let him look, Sherlock’s outstretched arms bend around John’s hips, to pull him closer. John angles his hard prick downwards and Sherlock takes it in his mouth, as deeply as he can. When it slides into place against the back of his throat, he moans explosively, as if _he’s_ the one who’s just seen stars.

_Jesus._ Just like that, John is no longer in control. He wants to keep his hips still, to be gentle, to be courteous, but Sherlock has the globes of his arse grasped firmly in his two hands, and he is using his grip to pull John’s hips forward, making him thrust. _Pull, release, pull, release_. 

It is irresistible, and John gives in, lets Sherlock set the pace, lets him drive John’s cock deep into his throat again and again.

On a particularly deep thrust, Sherlock gags, choking and sputtering, and his eyes tear up. John tries to pull back, to pull away, but Sherlock’s hands tighten on his arse and pull him back in tight, despite his raw throat and his streaming eyes.

“Jesus, Sherlock, don’t - ” But Sherlock cuts him off with a sharp grunt. He wants this - and he is taking what he wants. He has had John’s prick in his mouth before, but not quite like this. Not, as now, glowing with desire, and making no apologies.

John is not asking for any. 

Sherlock’s nipples are raised up into the air as he arches over the side of the bed. John takes the small peaks of flesh between his fingertips and rolls gently. Sherlock moans out his pleasure, presses further up into John’s hands, and broadcasts his heightening sensations with ardent sucks and swirls of tongue. John’s legs are locked and trembling.

Sherlock’s cock - still untouched - lies red and shiny on his belly, leaving slippery smears through the short hairs that lead down from his navel. 

Growing wilder now, Sherlock throws his head even further back, the better to swallow down John’s cock, so that the unbroken line of his spare body seems to go on forever. His hands grasp and pull erratically at John’s hips, begging him to thrust deeper, faster, harder. _No shame._ His body arches and bucks itself half off the bed under the ministrations of John’s fingers on his nipples and John’s cock in his mouth, his feet planted and his hips rutting against the air, seeking contact for his leaking erection. One more twist of fingers, and his whole body rises off the bed, from feet to shoulders. With a growl, he drives his mouth all the way down John’s cock.

Sherlock’s lips close around the very base of John’s prick, and if he was wild before, he’s desperate now. He sucks and swallows, making frenzied, half-choked, _hungry_ sounds. The other sounds that get to John, the _slurps_ and the sputters and the sloshy, wet _pops_ , so wanton, so _free,_ and so _fucking gorgeous._

When he looks down and sees that Sherlock has shining rivulets of saliva running unchecked down both sides of his face, to go with the tears streaming from his eyes, filthy beautiful, suddenly he is  _there_ -

\- so with his last shred of coherency, he reaches down and takes Sherlock’s slippery prick in his hand - it’s an awkward angle but he twists his wrist and gets his fingers wrapped around the underside and it doesn't matter at all because Sherlock practically levitates the moment John touches him and three strokes later he’s coming wildly and sucking hard and watching him John is seized by his own orgasm, locked knees shaking as he comes and comes and comes.

There are several minutes of silence afterwards, while their breathing settles and their penises soften. John gingerly shakes out his legs and looks at Sherlock where he lies resplendent on the bed.

Sherlock is slow to move, languorously flexing fingers and shoulders. He allows John to lift his shoulders and help him slide back up onto the bed. Slowly the red from the pooling blood fades, though his cheeks are still flushed and his lips are still wet and swollen as they curl into a satisfied smile.

The very weight of his body has changed, seeming to pool like liquid on the bed. His sigh is slow and warm and sated. It comes from deep, deep in his body.

It’s new.

As if he is truly inhabiting his own skin, and not merely dependent on it. As if the demands of the transport are not, after all, a tedious chore, but a pleasure.


End file.
